Shy

Michael could no longer ignore the obvious reality staring him right in the face: Andrew was becoming very attached to him. Sometimes it seemed like he was following him, or watching quietly from a distance, unaware that Michael knew he was there. But Michael didn't have to see him to know that he was there. He could feel it.

He maintained a neutral expression as he closed the lid of the washing machine. He had intended to go back to his apartment until the washing was finished, but first, he had to deal with his visitor.

"Did you need something, Andy?"

Andrew shrieked, and then he came out from the place where he thought he was hidden behind the doorway. He wasn't yet aware, it seemed, that other people couldn't see him anyway.

"How do you always do that?!"

Michael shrugged, smiling to himself as he set the timer on the machine.

"Call it a feeling."

Michael replied the same way that he always did. Andrew sighed, sounding mildly irritated, but didn't press the issue any further. He avoided Michael's eyes. Michael didn't accuse him of following him.

"I-I was just bored. Lily said she saw you heading downstairs with a laundry basket."

"It sounds like the two of you are getting along."

Andrew bit his lip before answering.

"Y-Yeah, we are. She's... I still think she's creepy, but she means well."

"She told me that you tried to go outside the other day, and that you looked sick. Are you alright?"

Andrew winced, looking extremely uncomfortable.

"I'm fine! I... just..." He paused and searched for the right phrasing. "I don't get out much anymore. I feel sick when I try to go too far from the building. I-I'm sure it'll go away, though."

Michael nodded and climbed atop one of the washing machines. He patted the one beside him, and Andrew hesitantly joined him. It wasn't exactly a bench, but it was comfortable enough seating for now.

"Now..." Michael cleared his throat as he looked around to make sure that no one was eavesdropping. "How long has that been the case?"

"...Huh?"

"How long has it been since you were freely able to go outside? ...I'm just curious."

Michael waited, patiently, for Andrew to answer the question. He didn't intend to push him, and if he lied, or didn't want to answer, that would have to be enough for now. Michael could wait.

He was generally good at telling if people were being honest with him, but even with his sixth sense and his powers, he could not see it plainly. He was reluctant to admit it, but he was as blind as anyone else when it came to trusting others. Whether they were dead or alive.

"...It's been about a year. Almost that long."

Michael shook his head. Oh, Andy. He hadn't left the apartment building in a whole year, and he still hadn't realized what he was?

"You haven't left this place in a year? That must get lonely—"

"N-No, I go out sometimes! And there's the balcony, and the roof!" Andy insisted, dramatically waving his hands about in denial.

Michael couldn't help but feel a little disappointed. He knew for a fact that Andrew couldn't leave, and he didn't think that making it outside of the apartment building's doors truly counted as leaving. Which meant that, for whatever reason, Andrew was lying to him.

"You don't have to lie to me," Michael said. Andrew froze. For a moment, he tried to think of ways to retract the statement. Perhaps he had been too blunt? "That is, if you really haven't left, I wouldn't judge you for it. If you feel that ill, then... it can't be helped."

Andrew blinked at him for a moment, studying his face as if trying to find a hidden answer to a question he hadn't voiced, and then stared straight ahead. It was almost like he hadn't heard the statement at all for how little he acknowledged it.

"What do you do at work?" Andrew asked out of nowhere. It was a sloppy attempt at changing the subject. He was afraid of whatever was keeping him in the building, and for good reason. "You told me that you work at the newspaper office... Are you a photographer?"

"I'm an investigative journalist," Michael answered. Andrew lit up like a little boy meeting a real-life superhero. "Technically," Michael added.

"Technically?"

"Yes, well... not a great deal goes on around here. I end up writing articles about pie-eating contests and the like, or ghostwriting for coworkers and editing everyone else's articles. Sometimes I throw graphics together or come along with a different reporter to snap pictures. It's not especially consistent and it's not what I signed up for, but the pay is good and I can work quite a bit from home. No long hours in a cubicle."

"I think that's amazing," Andrew blurted out. "I mean, one guy doing so many different jobs? What would they do if you weren't around?!"

Michael laughed and shrugged the compliment off.

"I'm sure they'd manage. I'm not the only one who multitasks. They don't have a lot of employees." He turned his head so that he was facing Andrew directly. "...And what about you?"

"Me?"

"You have to pay the bills somehow, don't you? What is it that you do all day when you're cooped up in your apartment?"

Andrew blushed and played with the sleeves of his sweater. He always wore soft ones that looked a size or two too big for him, and usually in warm colors. The sleeves of this one covered his hands. Michael noticed paint trapped under his fingernails.

"...I could show you."

His voice was so quiet, and so sudden, that Michael barely caught it. Andrew didn't look up from his hands, but his cheeks darkened a bit in color. It was a bit harder to identify a blush on him than it would be on someone paler. The tone of his skin somewhat disguised the redness. Even so, his blush got darker with each silent second that passed, until his cheeks were stained a clearly visible crimson.

"Show me what?" Michael asked carefully. He could figure that much out from the context, of course, but he wanted Andrew to spell it out plainly.

"M-My apartment. My, um... work. Only if you'd want to, though!" When Michael didn't answer right away, Andrew looked at him and forced a shy smile. "W-We... could have dinner, maybe talk a little. I make a mean lomo saltado."

Michael blinked.

"I don't know what that means."

Andrew laughed, embarrassed, and scratched the back of his neck.

"It's, um... a stir fry. It's beef and veggies with soy sauce, and it's kind of spicy."

"Hmm. ...I like spicy food." Michael didn't bother to address the harsh reality that his idea of spicy might be very different from Andrew's. He wasn't sure where, exactly, Andrew's family hailed from, but he was sure that that country's food was spicier than anything in Romania (the place Michael's maternal ancestors hailed from).

"O-Oh? That's good! Are you... Are you free for tomorrow after you finish with work...?"

Michael studied Andrew for a moment, just to be sure that this was really what he wanted, before he nodded.

"I'd like that. I'll be there at, say, six?"

Andrew beamed.

"Six... yeah, six is fine! Six is great!" Andrew hopped off of the laundry machine and scurried to the doorway. "I-I'll, uh, see you then, okay? I'll let you get back to your laundry. Bye!"

He ran away before Michael could answer him. He was pretty transparent, that Andrew. He'd clearly wanted to run off and dance around somewhere, but hadn't wanted to seem too eager in front of Michael. Michael chuckled.

He still had another thirty minutes to go until the load of laundry finished, so he returned to his apartment. Once there, he found the worn leather-bound book that he kept in the bottom drawer of his desk and the fountain pen that he used exclusively for writing in it. He flipped through the pages until he arrived at the one labeled Andrew Guzman.

September 7th— Andy invites me to his apartment. He plans to make me dinner and show me what he does for a living. He has confessed to being deceased for nearly a year, though he describes it as feeling ill when he tries to leave the building. His profession remains unclear, but several small hints have led me to believe that he is some sort of artist.

He left the page open on the desk long enough for the ink to dry before he returned the book to its hiding spot.

It was no wonder that it seemed so well-worn. His mother had given it to him when he was five. And ever since, he'd used it to write down the names and lives and details of each and every spirit that he met.

Even if no one else would remember them, Michael certainly would.